


Feint

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Anger, Birth, Blood, Breeding, Captive Breeding, Darth Vader Has A Dick, Empathy, F/M, Female Biology, Force-Sensitive Reader, Forced Oral Sex, Forced Pregnancy, Introspection, Menstrual Sex, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Objectification, One Shot, Physical Abuse, Post-Pregnancy, Pregnancy, Promises, Rape, Reader-Insert, Reproductive Slavery, Self-Hatred, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, baby loss, compassion - Freeform, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28011054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: You are a vessel recruited by the Empire to bear Darth Vader's children, because his Master prefers naturally-conceived offspring to clones. Your entire life is defined by your most basic biological function; an endless cycle of pregnancy, uselessness, and pain. It has left you a grief-stricken shell of the person you used to be, and with very few exceptions, you hate every second of it.Only weeks after having your most recent baby wrenched from your womb and whisked away from you, Vader himself stops by your cell to pay you a visit... but what use does he have for an empty, bleeding incubator?You'll never know it, but the fact is that he has come to see in you a promise he's never had a better opportunity to keep.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader, Darth Vader/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 127





	Feint

_"She'll be of no use to you right now, Lord Vader— she only started to bleed again yesterday."_

_"I am well aware of that fact, Captain. **Open the door."**_

The exchange came, muffled, through a thick sheet of durasteel. You were sitting naked on the floor of your cell; there was blood on your thighs, and blood on the cold tile beneath you too. You were never given anything to soak it up; that, you supposed, would have been too dignified. 

It had barely been seven weeks since they'd taken the most recent baby— what could Lord Vader possibly want from you now? Your breasts hurt, you felt utterly deflated, and your legs were stained with dark, clot-ridden blood. Your very first period after giving birth was always heavy and painful, and this one was no exception.

You heard the latch pop open first; after that, you witnessed the edge of the door itself separate from the wall as it opened to allow your captor access to you. His breathing and his footsteps were familiar; you'd been subjected to this too many times for them not to be. Familiar or not, though, they were terrifying— they meant you were about to be used; taken from. Vader took from you often, and he never stopped.

He also never gave anything back.

You'd been here for seven years, if your memory served you correctly; in those seven years, you'd been pregnant nine times. Six of the babies had lived— one set of twins (both boys), and four single births: Three additional boys, plus a girl, who'd been your only surviving daughter. Three of your potential offspring had died in the womb early-on; losing them had felt a lot like the period you were having right now. The other, though, had been born dead at full-term; you'd been blamed for that one.

You had named your first living child, and your second and third ones too; however, you didn't do that anymore. They were always whisked away as soon as they'd been pulled from between your legs; you couldn't actually recall ever seeing any of their faces. You did remember their cries, though; each of those had been unique. Loud at first, they would grow fainter and fainter the farther away the child was carried, until they eventually dissolved altogether. You never heard any of them more than once, which caused you to both cherish and disdain the memories of their voices.

Every time one of them was ripped away from you, you lost a piece of yourself. You'd stopped reacting outwardly to the grief a long time ago in an attempt to offer yourself some level of protection. Internally, however, you were always in shambles for weeks after one of your children was taken— the period of time between giving birth and growing fertile again was typically one you would use to harden yourself against the next violation to which you would be subjected. 

Vader's coming here during what was supposed to be your time of recovery and mourning was, it seemed, yet another way for him to steal from you. You were angry at him for arriving so soon, while at the same time knowing nothing could be done about it. You hoped he couldn't feel your rage. You already knew that he knew he couldn't get you pregnant again right now.

The footsteps ceased but the laborious, mechanized breathing didn't as Vader reached the spot in which you had opted to sit. He moved slowly and deliberately; you supposed that the man who was second only to the Emperor had no need to rush about. 

You weren't stupid enough to ask him what it was he wanted. That didn't matter, though, because before you could say anything at all, he informed you coldly, "I've come to ascertain the status of your health." His voice was deep and foreboding; his words came between the sharp hiss of his respiration. His mask betrayed absolutely nothing; whatever he might be thinking or feeling, you were blind to it as long as he was covering his face. You wondered if _anyone_ ever saw his face.

"I'm fine," you told him, and that was it. You'd never spoken extensively with Vader before, despite having been made to let him fuck you more times than you could count.

"Why are you bleeding onto the floor?" he asked, and until he lifted his head to glance behind you at your tiny bed, you weren't sure what he meant by his query.

"If I soak my mattress with blood during the day," you answered, "I won't be able to sleep in it at night." There was no day or night on a starship, of course, but the artificial atmosphere inside of the one on which you were imprisoned included a day-night cycle comprised of twenty-four standard hours. When you bled like this, you spent as many of those hours as you could away from your sleeping space: It was, perhaps, your only source of comfort, and the last thing you wanted to do was render it unusable. 

"You will seat yourself at the edge of the bed," he said, demonstrating a palpable lack of regard for your concern.

"Lord Vader," you started foolishly, only to be interrupted.

_"You will seat yourself at the edge of the bed."_

You obeyed; stood up from the floor and walked yourself over to the place you'd been deliberately avoiding. Of course Vader didn't care if you ruined your bed; why would he? If you didn't listen to him, though, he would only use the power of his mind to make you. You'd once thought yourself strong with the Force, but that was before you'd been brought here. Darth Vader had been the one to make you realize how weak and insignificant you really were; anything you could do, he could accomplish with far greater efficiency... and brutality, too. This meant that to fight back against him in any capacity was always futile. It had only ever earned you pain; that was why you'd stopped a long time ago.

Whoever you thought you'd been prior to arriving here, you weren't that person anymore. You were no one now— a mere hole; a receptacle. That was as certain as anything. 

"Open your legs," he ordered next, having followed you over to what was supposed to have been your refuge. It might have reminded you of all the times he'd come to plant his seed in you, except for the fact that he never, _ever_ fucked you on your bed. Typically, he preferred to either bend you over something, or force you up against a wall and rape you from behind. He didn't seem to like to look at your face, which was fine, because you were sure that to have him do so would only have made it worse for you.

He was definitely looking at your face today, though, even if you couldn't have so much as begun to guess why. He gazed down at you in silence for what felt like a very long time, once you'd leaned back on your hands and opened your legs up wide for him. You were, as you had feared, bleeding all over your own paper-thin sheets. On top of that, you— for whatever reason— felt especially conscious today of the skin still hanging loosely from the bottom of your abdomen as a consequence of your most recent pregnancy, along with your swollen, useless breasts. Typically you'd be left alone for long enough following the births to give your body time to contract; begin the process of returning to its previous state. This time, you hadn't... and once more, it made you feel intruded upon.

As Vader stood and continued to stare ominously, your own mind wandered; took you back to when you'd last been forcibly inseminated. You always knew when it had happened successfully, usually before you were even given the test. You would lie on your back and poke at your abdomen regularly following each and every rape; when your womb began to feel firm, you knew you'd conceived the next child. This was followed by a period of waiting; once one of Vader's doctors or medical droids confirmed your pregnancy, your treatment would improve (if only marginally) until you either miscarried or went into labour.

While pregnant, you were allowed to shower more frequently; sometimes you even got to put on what amounted to a dressing gown, and be walked up and down the corridors by a guard. Your food was of better quality and a bit more plentiful, and you were never whipped or beaten while you were with child. None of this, of course, was worth the pain of handing them over to the Empire once you'd finished gestating them, but there was precious little you could do about that. 

This was why you, despite it all, occasionally allowed yourself to feel tiny slivers and bursts of joy in the act of carrying your babies: You would admire your growing stomach, and try to appreciate the way your breasts swelled and filled, even if it was in preparation for a job they wouldn't be allowed to do. You would feel for kicks and tiny hiccups as each baby got bigger; reassurances that you would, at least, get to hear its cries before you were forced to give it up. Again, you never forgot _any_ of those cries. All at once, they drained and fuelled you— killed you while, somehow, simultaneously preserving your life.

You would touch your belly very gently toward the end of each pregnancy and address the child verbally; you did this even for the ones you couldn't bring yourself to name. You would apologize to them for the life into which they were being born, and tell them you loved them too, because it was unlikely that they would ever hear as much once they came out. It was always true; you loved every one of your children— even the dead ones, and the ones without names. You hated yourself for not being able to protect them.

"The birth was difficult for you this time," Vader said matter-of-factly, dragging you back into the present with that _voice_ of his.

You didn't respond to his observation; didn't say anything at all. He was knelt between your legs by now, probing you with thick, gloved, mechanical fingers. It stung, because he was correct: The most recent birth had, in fact, been quite hard on you. The labour was painful and had lasted for hours, and you'd torn badly when the baby had finally crowned. You had no idea how much blood you'd lost that day, whether through the vaginal tear itself or from your womb; however, you did know you had started to feel dizzy by the time you'd ceased being able to hear your little one's cries. 

You'd known something was wrong before it had even started, but no one ever listened to you. At least the baby had lived; if it hadn't, you'd have been both injured _and_ subject to punishment. You had been severely beaten by the guards following the birth of the dead one; one of them in particular had gone so far as to wrench his pants open and assault you with his cock. He'd warned you not to tell anyone, and so you hadn't; likely never would. You'd never forget the sight of his spent dick when he had finally withdrawn it from you, because it had been covered in blood and fluids and clots. Even a few grey-hued leftover pieces of your apparently insufficient placenta had ended up stuck in his pubic hair by the time he'd finished with you.

That guard still smiled at you every single time he had cause to see you; it was disgusting... although not as disgusting as what you already knew was about to happen.

While you'd been lost in your thoughts, Vader had taken the time to withdraw his hand from your bleeding cunt, rise to his feet, and remove the armoured, girdle-like codpiece from his suit. Behind it, there was an opening in the liner through which he could expose himself to you. He only ever did this for one purpose.

"Lord Vader, Sir, I can't—"

"You can't _what?"_

"I can't— I mean, you can't get me—"

Before you could even say the word 'pregnant', he'd already interrupted you harshly with, _"I know."_

You didn't understand, although you also didn't dare ask why he seemed to want to fuck you if he wasn't going to get more offspring out of it. You expected he wasn't about to tell you, so you sat quietly and watched as he pulled out his own wretched dick. You hated Vader to his core; hated every part of him, but what you hated most might have been his mutilated cock. It was long and thick to suit his build, but it was also irreparably scarred; mottled and torn and covered in the strangest, ugliest ridges of ruined and discoloured skin you'd ever seen adorning a human body. You could hardly even begin to guess what the rest of him looked like; didn't want to, really.

Somehow, of course, the damn thing still worked in spite of its damage, which was why you kept on having babies. You'd overheard that clones were falling out of favour with the Empire; it seemed that naturally conceived offspring had more genetic integrity than mere copies. Additionally, they grew up stronger and were more in tune with the Force— it was no wonder the Emperor had captured you as breeding stock for the man who he seemed to regard as his own prized stallion.

"Open your mouth."

"I—"

_"Open your mouth."_

You didn’t have a choice.

He stepped up to you closely after that; gripped what had quickly become a bulging, dripping erection by its base with one of those thick, strong, inhuman hands of his. He seemed to give it a squeeze before starting to prod your mouth with it. You knew better than to try to resist, and so you closed your eyes and parted your lips; let him force his way in until his tip crashed into the back of your throat. He let go of himself once he was all the way in, and tangled his fingers in the back of your hair instead. He held your head perfectly still this way as he started to thrust; you couldn't move, but you could feel tears welling up in your eyes.

He'd never done this to you before; never had you take him in your mouth before. You still didn't understand the purpose— why did he want this? It didn't matter, though, not when there was nothing you could do to stop him. All you possessed the ability to do was experience the growing ache of your open jaw as you tried to keep your teeth from grazing him for fear it might make him angry. That, and try not to vomit on him while his scars slid past your lips over and over, and you choked on the thick, deformed head of his cock.

It frightened you that he didn't vocalize; that his breathing didn't even seem to change. Could it be that his suit did his breathing entirely for him? You didn't know why the hell he needed it; you'd once assumed he wore it for the sole purpose of intimidation, until you'd seen his dick with your own eyes. You wondered if he was even enjoying what he was doing right now; wondered, again, what he could possibly be getting out of this.

He didn't tell you when he finally wrenched your head away from his body, nor when he ordered you to lie back on the mattress and spread your legs in the air. Vader never told you anything, except for what he wanted you to do.

Once you'd done as he asked, he stepped up very near to you; took your legs in his hands, and pressed them against the cold, hard armour concealing his chest. You could see the little box set into the middle of it blinking as you looked up at him. Was the box a part of the suit, or was it a part of him? Yet another thing you didn't know; wouldn't have cared to know if you hadn't been trapped here. 

Your cunt happened to be perfectly level with his cock from this position; if he did have to bend his knees a bit, you hardly noticed it. You were overwhelmed right now by the sheer oddity of his wanting to have you this way; again, he seemed hate to look at your face. 

He kept on staring down at you anyway as he pushed himself inside. It wasn't difficult for him, but it did hurt you; stung much more than his fingers had. As when he'd crossed the threshold of your lips, you could feel his every scar; it made you grimace. You weren't accustomed to fucking him face-to-face, so you couldn't suppress it. Luckily, he didn't seem to be especially offended by your pain or disgust. Maybe he'd even anticipated it; for all you knew, he was enjoying it.

Soon he started to thrust again, and that was at least familiar to you. You looked up at his mask as he pounded your tortured cunt with steadily increasing speed, but couldn't decode him; couldn't even begin to see his eyes. It occurred to you then that it was, in a way, appropriate that you had never seen your children's faces, given the fact that you'd never seen their father's either. 

He still didn't make a sound as he fucked you, because he never did. You couldn't think of anything less personal or more violating than being with Darth Vader like this; he might as well have been a robot, although you knew all too well that he was still very much a man. He gripped your ankles tightly as he bucked his hips— too tightly; it made you whimper.

He didn't even begin to respond to that.

Perhaps it did do something for him, though, because it was only after you began to whine that you sensed how close he was to reaching his peak: He stiffened up further, forcing you to clench around him; at that you could have sworn you felt him begin to tremble. He still didn't say anything; didn't moan or gasp or cry out, but in short time you became aware that he'd lost control— released himself forcefully into you yet again. You'd never have been able to guess how many times you'd absorbed him like this. He pushed then; pushed hard: Even if you couldn't get pregnant right now, it seemed that he wanted you to accept as much of him as he had to offer. It stung even worse than when he'd first entered you, especially when he wrenched himself out past your torn entrance at the very end.

You expected him to turn around and leave next, because that was what he always did when he was done with you: Turn and leave, often with an ostentatious swish of his cape. He didn't this time, though; this time he continued to stare. He stared as he tucked his newly-bloodied cock back beneath the innermost layer of his suit; stared as he clipped the front of his armoured codpiece back onto his belt. 

Vader had done a lot of staring at you, in the short time since he'd first entered your cell today.

"Sit up," he commanded, once he'd put himself back together.

You did, unable to keep yourself from noticing the gush of thick, fresh blood (it was now mixed with Vader's seed) that seemed to pour out of you as you resumed your previous position. You regretted immediately the damage done to the mattress.

"Let me see your eyes," he said, leaning in as if to examine them. He even went so far as to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger, ensuring your gaze was fixed on him... or rather, on his mask.

What could possibly have gotten into him today? He was most assuredly himself (the condition of his dick told you that, if nothing else), but he wasn't acting like it, between his staring and his timing and the fact that he wanted to fuck you from the front. He'd been far less hospitable toward you before than he was being today, and yet today he was scaring you more than he ever had. Was he preparing to kill you? Sell you? Put you to work doing something else; something _worse?_ Perhaps he or the Emperor had decided you'd grown too old to bear his offspring.

"Lord Vader," you tried to begin again, only to be interrupted once more— this time with a hard, unforgiving, back-handed smack to the side of your face. You cried out in pain; however, you didn't fall back. You could both smell and taste copper, though, and when you reached up to touch your face where he'd hit you, you realized you were bleeding: From your nose; from the side of your mouth. The wounds were insignificant, and likely looked and felt worse than they actually were, but you still didn't understand why he'd felt the need to impose them upon you. Hadn't you been good? You thought you'd been good.

"Are you capable of feigning death for a brief period of time?" he asked abruptly. The question came from nowhere, and it confounded you. What did it matter to him if you could fake being dead?

"I— well—" You couldn't help but waffle; not only were you afraid of being hit again, but you'd never pretended to die before— not since you'd been a child playing schoolyard games, anyway. Those days seemed to belong to another time, you thought offhandedly as you tried and failed to give Vader an answer.

 _"I asked you a question! **Are you capable of feigning death?"**_ He sounded frustrated, but not just that. If he _hadn't_ been Darth Vader, you'd have believed he sounded almost desperate— as if in a hurry; as though he were running out of time. You'd always thought time acquiesced to men like him. If it didn't, they forced it to... didn't they?

"I-I... _yes._ Y-yes, I think I can," you finally stammered, hoping not to draw any more of his ire.

At that, he put his arms out to you. The gesture in and of itself was so uncharacteristic of him that you had to think about his cock again, if only for the purpose of reminding yourself that the man before you was precisely who he appeared to be.

You still didn't know what the hell he wanted.

"Sir, I don't—"

_"Up. **Now."**_

Surely he didn't want you to climb into his arms...?

You hesitated because you couldn't help it; while you did, he seemed to become fed-up: All at once, he took the initiative for you; scooped you up into his arms as though you were one of the children you shared together, and held you tightly to his chest. _Did_ he ever hold your children? Somehow you doubted it.

You looked up at his inscrutable mask, more confused than scared now, but still abjectly terrified.

"Act as though you've died," he said. His voice could never have been described as gentle, but right then it sounded as if it were as close as it was ever going to get. 

"Lord Vader, please, I still don't—"

 _"Pretend I've killed you!_ Stop questioning me— this is for your own good."

You might not have cared to view his face ever before, but you certainly wished you could get a glimpse of it right now. You thought about every time he'd fucked you too hard; every time you'd offended him, and felt the Force close around your neck in response. You thought about his breathing and his footsteps and the scars on his dick, and about the fact that you shared six living children with him without ever having seen into his eyes.

Following all of those considerations, you obeyed his command: Closed your own eyes and went limp in his arms as you pretended that you were, for all intents and purposes, completely lifeless. You focused intently on slowing your breathing and your heart-rate, too; didn't move a muscle as you felt him begin to walk. His strides were long and his steps were heavy; staying still was difficult as you felt yourself be jostled about.

Very soon, you heard the door to your cell open up again; registered that Vader had taken you through it. It was hard not to squint, even with your eyes shut— the light in the corridors was far brighter than the light in your cell. You didn't squint, though; didn't do anything, even as Vader seemed to be stopped by one of his men.

"Sir, has something happened?"

"A prisoner has died, Captain. I am transporting the body to the incinerator." You could feel his voice through the armour encasing his chest. He wasn't actually taking you to be burned, was he? You wished you knew what the hell was going on. Vader's behaviour today was beginning to make you think that he might very well be crazy underneath that mask of his— but just how crazy was he?

 _"Personally,_ Lord Vader?" The guard, or whoever he was, sounded incredulous.

"Yes— this one was my responsibility; I shall dispose of the remains. Do you object?"

"Of course not, Sir, I only meant—"

 _"Then I suggest you resume your duties, Captain."_ His tone of voice, like the light in the corridor, made you want to wince. Once more, you restrained yourself. You could feel blood seeping out of you; out of your cunt, and your nose as well. To any observer, you thought, you might very well have passed for dead. You couldn't see yourself, of course, but you hoped you were going a good job.

You must have been, because Vader's officer responded to his order with an emphatic, "Yes, Sir!" after which you heard his boots click off in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with his commander.

It was not long before you heard the gentle _swoosh_ of an automated door, and Darth Vader's voice instructing you to stand as he set you down on your feet upon another hard tile floor. You didn't know Vader; you'd never known him. This kind of treatment, though, was the last thing you'd have expected. You looked around yourself, but couldn't discern where you were. The only parts of the ship with which you were familiar were your cell, and the medical centre on the prison level.

"The use of slaves by the Empire has proven an unfortunate necessity thus far," he told you, "but I can no longer abide keeping one for myself."

"So... you're going to _burn_ me?" You were terrified, but your timbre was as neutral as you could will it to be. You didn't know what the chutes leading down to the incinerator looked like; was he going to toss you down one of them alive? Why wasn't it warmer in here? You were still naked, and you were cold— freezing cold.

He paused, and again, you wished you could see his face. "No," he said, as authoritatively as you'd ever heard him say anything. "I am freeing you— this is an escape pod bay."

...What? "Sir, I don't—"

"The co-ordinates are set," he interrupted, turning to open a hatch for you. He wasn't lying; it really was an escape pod— not a shaft; not a chute. "The vessel will virtually pilot itself until it reaches its destination. _Get in."_

You didn't ask where he'd set the pod to go, nor how he was going to explain its departure to the Emperor. Perhaps he'd already tampered with the sensors— he must have been planning this, maybe for quite a while. You'd wanted to kill him when he'd first marched into your cell; now you were finding yourself grateful for his apparent empathy.

You didn't know of any Sith who had ever displayed even a modicum of compassion— but then, you also didn't know who Darth Vader used to be. 

"Why are you doing this?" you asked, as he stood away from the hatch, motioning for you to get inside. You were still naked; still shivering, but you didn't care. You were _leaving._ You never, ever thought you'd get to leave. 

"I promised myself that I would," he said, both simply and utterly ambiguously as you climbed into the pod.

You thought, then, about the children you'd given birth to over the years; they'd all been born on this ship. Vader himself had never attended any of the births, and neither had the Emperor. You couldn't help but wonder why they hadn't simply used a turkey baster, for how impersonal the whole affair really was. Still, despite it all, you loved your babies— they were _yours._ By leaving, weren't you abandoning them?

"The children—" you started, but he didn't let you finish.

Peering into the space into which he'd ushered you, he told you decidedly, "The children belong to the Empire. It is too late for them, but it isn't too late for you— _go."_

He didn't wait for a response before shutting the hatch, and pressing a button on a control panel set into the wall next to the pod. 

It launched, and then it was gone. You would only find the clothing and rations he'd stuffed beneath the seat of it for you once you'd calmed yourself; begun to accept the reality that your tenure as a slave truly had come to an end. You were still bleeding; still in pain, but that wouldn't last forever. Your freedom— if you were careful with it— very well might. You supposed you must still be a person after all, because a mere receptacle would never have been treated the way your former keeper had just treated you.

You smiled to yourself as your vessel disappeared into space, because after seven long years of being stolen from, something had _finally_ been given back to you.

Darth Vader, for his part, walked away from the empty space left by the capsule once it had been released; stepped out of the bay, and back into the corridor. Your supposition had been correct: He had, in fact, tampered with the sensor attached to the pod in which he'd sent you away. As far as his starship's computers were concerned, nothing was missing at all— your departure was as much a secret as the remaining vestiges of humanity beneath his mask which had allowed him to make the decision to release you in the first place.

Explaining your absence to the Emperor was going to be another matter altogether, and surely Vader would suffer the consequences... but he also knew very well that the notion of his having killed you in a fit of rage or pain was far from inconceivable. You'd never know it, but the Empire had gone to great lengths to find you in the first place; if another woman was to suffer your fate in the future, it would take a long time to locate and 'recruit' her. Another thing you'd never know were the circumstances under which your rescuer had come of age; that he'd needed to look into your eyes because of who he had been trying to see in them: His mother; himself— along with all of the slaves he'd once vowed to free but never did.

He'd been assured unlimited power by the Emperor, but what use was it if it didn't allow him to keep his promises? Vader's promises had once meant the world to him. To free one slave— _his_ slave— was better than to free none of them at all. His mother, had she been alive, would likely have abhorred the man he'd become in the years since he'd left her. The decision he'd made today, though, would have made her proud. 

He resumed his duties then without another thought of you— went about his business as if you'd never existed, because that was what he had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working under the assumption that the girl was first recruited not too long after Ani healed (or, 'healed') from his wounds on Mustafar. Palpatine is a fucking dick; this sort of behaviour is certainly not beyond him.
> 
> Anyway, this felt wonderful to write. Anakin is my hero.
> 
> (Also, as an aside, **welcome back to Star Wars, Hayden!** 🎉🎊😭👏 The TROS voice-over was never, _ever_ going to be enough, and now it doesn't have to be.)


End file.
